


Crazy Little Thing Called Love

by goje (surrenderdammit)



Series: Crazy Little Thing Called Love [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A bit vague, M/M, Mycroft is ever more awkward with feelings than Sherlock, Mycroft-centric, Sibling Incest, not being impossible but improbable and valuing the truth, title from the song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrenderdammit/pseuds/goje
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His little brother had the eyes of their mother, and when Sherlock looked at him now, Mycroft could see a younger Mummy gazing at their father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crazy Little Thing Called Love

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I gave in to the devil on my shoulder. It's the first time I've written this pairing, English isn't my first language and it's been a while since I dabbled in writing mature fics. The work hasn't been proof-read or Brit-picked.
> 
> Hmm, what else? Err...possible OOCness.
> 
> But yeah, hope you'll enjoy! :)

Mycroft knew it was never going to be easy, not for someone like him. At five he looked at his parents and saw the improbable, which would nonetheless hold true, against any logic he could grasp. It was the first clue, when he asked Nanny what the difference was between Mummy’s “I love you” to him versus his father and Mycroft could not, for the life of him, understand. It was frustrating, because there were words like unconditional and romantic and endorphins, family and lovers and marriage and children. As he grew older he could, objectively, analyse the terms and their definitions in relation to real life.

At seven, his mother put a fragile, crying bundle of a baby in his arms and smiled. “This is Sherlock,” she’d said, “He is your little brother. He’s going to be a chore, but I need you to love him, and protect him, and teach him things your father and I can’t. Will you keep him company, Mycie? Will you be his big brother?” and Mycroft had thought that this, this is important. He hadn’t understood; the thing in his arms was loud and chubby, red-nosed and snotty. This “Sherlock” was frankly alarming, but he knew that when Mummy said “I love you”, and kissed his brow, he felt warm, and “I love you too” was the only reply that came to mind, even if the words didn’t quite feel right without the full weight of understanding behind. So he cradled a squirming infant brother and rocked him, determined to fulfil this challenge that had been issued, to love and protect and be big. When the baby stilled, hiccupping, and large, greubluegreen eyes like mother’s stared up at him in silent interest Mycroft titled his head and thought, “ _I will figure it out. I’ll figure you out, little Sherlock.”_

As they grew and Mycroft could see a shadow of himself in the lightening quick mind hidden beneath unruly curls, Sherlock was more of a challenge, as he’d suspected, than a chore as Mummy had cautioned. Keeping a careful tab on his successes and failures, Mycroft had at 17 calculated he’d done well in the role he’d been given. There’d been bullies, there always were, and he’d dealt with them accordingly (he’d been a fat child before puberty, and Sherlock was perhaps a watered down version of himself in case of mind power but much more eye-catching, his utter lack of talent and interest in blending in and becoming invisible further working against him). Then there was the ceaseless noise of his mind, something Mycroft had learnt to deal with but which he had no idea to teach, and so had sought out ways to channelling it; experiments and riddles and adventures (though Sherlock soon found that piracy was not really as intellectually challenging without Mycroft’s treasure maps with word-plays and logical problem-solving). He’d protected, and he’d mentored.

Real life was, alas, never as straight-forward and neat as it ended up being in the assortment of files in his mind. He understood structure, could navigate chaos; it was logic, rational thought and knowing when to smile, step back or bite. It was hormones, pheromones; chemistry in all its forms, the mathematical formulas and codes making up every molecule constellation. It could all be dissected, with a scalpel or a sharp mind, and studied.

But his little brother cried sometimes in pained hitches of breaths, trying to make no sound because he wanted to be like Mycroft, wanted to dissect and study, not lose against nature’s hand but take a step back and observe (his whole life was becoming a charade of not caring, of suppressing, and Mycroft wondered sometimes why it was necessary to put so much effort in).

However, in moments like those, Mycroft was reminded of his own ignorance, of how he’d been forced to give up on the equations describing the chemical reaction to mother’s “I love you” and her brow-kiss because even as the numbers and letters added up, the reaction in his body seemed to far detached from the neat scribbles on paper.

He’d thought, “ _This must be love_ ”, and then they grew and though his memories were rational the hurt piled up and there were fights and “sibling rivalry” alongside crying and pirates, giggles and intellectual sparring. And he thought, “ _Unconditional_ ”, because sometimes Sherlock didn’t deserve to be held at night or be brow-kissed but Mycroft did it anyway, and sometimes he didn’t deserve to be thanked or forgiven quite so easily but Sherlock did it all the same, no matter how long it took.

Then his little brother was 17 and Mycroft felt old, like he’d missed something, and when he looked at his brother now he had to forcefully dull his senses or he’d see it and he had to deny it, because it was impossible and not at all the kind of difficult he’d been expecting when he was five and watched his parents holding hands. It took two years before he could no longer deceive himself (he was good at deceiving, but he was even better at digging up truths).

 His little brother had the eyes of their mother, and when Sherlock looked at him now, Mycroft could see a younger Mummy gazing at their father.

It wasn’t rational or logical and mother had never prepared him for this, and the following years were an unholy war of protecting his little brother from them both and the rest of the world, teaching him to stand on his own when he’d need it (as much a failure as a success; Sherlock took learning on his own to the extremes and Mycroft was on stand-by with snipers, hospitals, rehabilitations and DI Lestrade) and loving him as he had done, refusing to change, to follow, because this was safe and unconditional; a babe in his arms his mother had placed there.

Then John Watson came and Sherlock understood something Mycroft had known he himself would never truly do, and he felt suddenly too young to be the spider in the web of power he’d woven behind his government.

“You once said mother and father were improbable, that according to all the facts, they should not be what they are. That had you not known them you would have predicted a divorce long before now and a move to separate bedrooms within the first year of their marriage.”

Mycroft sees the point that is not yet made but steps back, because he knows this is where he’s supposed to retreat. His little brother follows, because he has no notion of control, unless it suits his needs.

Sherlock sees his mother and father and he wants it, because no one else does what Mycroft does to him, and he realized the difference with their parents, Lestrade and finally John. After Moriarty and betrayals and all those different kinds of hurt (so many ways things can hurt), he makes the connections and he won’t let it haunt him anymore.

“We’re improbable too, aren’t we? You think we’re impossible but we’re not, _we’re not_. I _know_ us.”

He doesn’t love Mycroft like he does Mummy and father and Mrs Hudson, doesn’t connect to him like a friend as he does Lestrade, and doesn’t recognise him as a brother like he does John. He says, “I love you, Mycroft”, and kisses him, because he finally understand why he feels like he’s going mad whenever he’s too close, too far away. Finally knows why Mycroft’s lips on his brow was so very different from their mother’s, understands the frustration of knowing something is missing, something that Mycroft can give but won’t _why hasn’t he why is he denying me what is he denying piss off I hate you I am so confused don’t go why does it hurt don’t leave._

And so, at 40, Mycroft says, “This will never be easy,” and it’s the truth, but he thinks “ _what other word than love can I use, when I’ve loved you for so long, but never like this_ ” and simply kisses back.

It’s wrong and he knows it, like he knows the chart of chemical reactions and releases in his brain, but like that sheet of paper with his mother’s brow-kiss spelt out, it does not connect to the onslaught of sensations his brother’s mouth, his hands and hips wreck upon him. It is desire as he’s never felt it, and he allows himself to think “ _this is my lover_ ” and something slots into place and it’s like they’ve done this before, a million times. He has 7 years on him but Sherlock understands things he doesn’t; Mycroft’s never had any difficulty not caring, not feeling what he should. It is here they differ, here Sherlock doesn’t need to suppress and Mycroft has to make peace with this strange chemical reaction that warms his heart and ties his stomach into knots (illogical, waxy prose). It is a strange change but this is Sherlock, in ways the other half of his brain and the myriad of synapses which connects him to whatever this is. He’s not alone anymore and he hadn’t realized he ever was, but the careless removal of crisp, expensive clothing on the floor of his bedroom is strangely satisfying in a way that makes his breath hitch.

Sex, he realises, is not simple mechanics as it used to be; messy and methodological. Teeth should hurt against the tendon of his neck but through some connection of nerves he has not studied, it makes his cock twitch and his back arch. Swallowing a moan, Mycroft lets the initial shock upon this discovery fade to a heated fascination focused solely on the body before him. It’s not until he’s pushed down and pressed against his bed he realizes he had been truly lost to anything that wasn’t Sherlock, as if his brother was the most engaging problem in the universe.

“Christ Mycroft,” Sherlock moaned, staring at him with hooded eyes and parted lips as he returned his full focus on his little brother, the silk of the bed no longer distracting, “have you any idea...to have your mind all on me, only me—“

He didn’t finish, crashing their mouths together for a deep, filthy kiss with teeth that should be nothing but pain but was so much more nibbling on his lips, his tongue. Hands roamed and they were pressing close together, naked, skin slick with sweat and cocks weeping between them. Mycroft was too busy taking it all in with a vicious focus to spare any breath speaking, the sounds of his own gasps and moans strange in his ears but filed away carefully. Sherlock, on the other hand, was cursing against his skin, hands gripping Mycroft’s hips and slithering down his thighs, pushing his legs apart to accommodate as he kneeled between them, thrusting their pricks together.

“Fuck, fuck, _oh fuck_ ,” he groaned, whining when Mycroft buried his one hand in his curls and tugged, while the other settled on a smoothly curved cheek, pressing their hips closer, “I can’t, My, fuck—“

They arched into each other, the rhythm growing desperate as Mycroft finally let a word slip past his lips, coated in a sultry moan that had his brother latching onto his neck again (there was going to be a bruise; their skin bruised so easily, Mycroft’s especially). “Say it again,” Sherlock demanded, thrusting harder, grinding down with enough force to move them up the silky bed.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he gasped out, obeying, because it fell so effortlessly off his tongue, and suddenly a hot, sticky mess spread between their groins and up his stomach, the shout of his own name aborted somewhere in the middle as the body covering his seized up in small spasms before collapsing.

It was not like it used to be, obviously, with Sherlock so naked and so much older and heavier (not heavy enough) lying in his arms, but Mycroft could see the difference and appreciate them for what they were. This was not, worryingly, more than a blurry thought however. The weirdly pleasant burn of not enough oxygen combined with the unsatisfied arousal throbbing almost painfully through his veins had his senses and mind focused entirely on the boneless, panting mess of a lover that was currently crushing him. He had however always been more patient with his brother than he’d been with anything else ever, and so stroked a hand down his back to rest on his ass again, and combed his free fingers through sweaty curls tickling his chin.

For a little more than a minute, Sherlock came as close to purring as humanly possible before swiftly pushing himself up on his arms and wriggling down his brother’s body, pausing to lick at the sticky mess he’d caused, settling himself between his legs.

“Mm, delightful, brother dear,” he murmured, eying the almost purple prick with a pleased smile, making Mycroft fight the urge to look away in slight embarrassment (he knew he was just a bit above average, had never attached any sort of sentiment to this, but the hungry look on Sherlock’s face tempted him to change this fact). The sound that escaped him when Sherlock swallowed him to the hilt in one go, sucking obscenely and bringing him off with almost painful efficiency, was not entirely human, he was sure. It didn’t take long, with those lips he’d never admired before (it was just lips, what was there to admire, _but oh God_ ), and soon he was caught in his own ecstasy, gasping out his brother’s name like the filthiest curse, reverent and unbelieving. It wasn’t until he collapsed as if he’d gotten his strings cut, boneless, on the bed that he realised how wound up he’d been in his arousal. Fascinating, he thought, watching through hooded eyes while his brother cleaned him up, swallowing and licking his lips and any skin available as he moved up Mycroft’s body, smugly smiling.

“Took us long enough,” Sherlock says later, lying pressed against him with arms and legs pinning him down, “no thanks to you. I’ve decided to be mad at you about that, by the way. You knew didn’t you, yet you didn’t bother to explain. I’ve been a _mess_.”

He decided to be honest, because sometimes his brother sees but he doesn’t observe. “I knew, but I didn’t understand,” he begins, carefully, combing fingers through his brother’s hair,”not the way you do, with John and Mrs Hudson. In this, I did not trust myself to make any decisions beyond the ones I’d already made.” _To protect, teach and love you_.

They fall silent for a while, before Sherlock huffs in a mix of amusement and annoyance. “Well, I’m going to savour this; the time when I finally make a decision for you and not the other way around,” he pauses, tightening his grip around Mycroft chest and mumbles against his skin, lips soft and damp. “You’re mine, from now on, you’re mine. Only mine.”

Laying a hand on his arm, Mycroft squeezes. “All right.”

It’s the truth.

**  
**

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, yeah. I'll just hide over here in the Shame Corner for the rest of the evening.


End file.
